Poem: Surprised By The (Wo)man of My Dreams

First off, goodbye to postvixen and senorphrog. I wonder if I should ask for a 'reason for discontinuance of service' when folks leave. <:) Another poem: I've become pretty fascinated with the idea of a gay man falling in love with a woman recently, so I thought I would write a poem about it. I'm considering this one for inclusion in the chapbook, too, but there might be some tweaking done. We'll see. ************** Surprised By The (Wo)man of My Dreams She leaned back on her hands and her hair fell over curves that should not exist but I was grateful to ignore them for her mouth. She had caught me off-balance with something feminine that I could relate to, like sharing a taste for purple flowers and how they smelled. On this day five years ago I was playing the pronoun game with my family and the Christ hoping they wouldn't catch on (even though they eventually did) and today I'm doing the same for a different family and the many flavored fragments of the Most Holy Son that people love to carry with them knowing that eventually they'll catch on and we'll be the black sheep in a tribe of pink panthers. I know those curves far too well now and I can't ignore the fact that they're all completely wrong because the words she speaks from those lips too soft and that throat an octave too high makes the term platonic absolutely impossible.

Poem: First Day On The Job

Hey there, all...

I think I'm going to refrain from posting too much to my LJ for a while, because the current general situation is making me worry myself sick, and I really just need to sort it all out. postvixen pretty much summed up my thoughts on the Bush situation, and I'm really not ready to talk about it. The whole thing just makes me really, really perplexed and sad.

Anyway, this poem...I've very frequently worked in customer service, and I really actually dig it. I like making people hapy, and customer service is one of those unexpected, underappreciated ways of doing it. So, the first day on the job is always filled with that kind of naive optimism, but later on it almost always degenerates into a pretty healthy cynical realism. ;) The Nature Company and the Bookshop have been the exceptions to that rule. I wrote this poem with Hell EZ-Mart in mind.


**************
First Day On The Job

Born again
with a new uniform
and a shiny nametag
that says "I'm an individual
with something unique to offer you
in this context of brightly colored
cotton-candy consumerism."
I am a shaman of the convenient,
granted with the power to transmute your money
into gas and cigarettes, soda and chips,
with a wink and a smile
never revealing the secret of "how".
Born again
with a fresh coat of optimism
I believe in the divinity
of customer service
and that I can leave you a little closer
than when I found you.
I have a sparkling broom
and a snack cake display I'm immensely proud of.
Come in.
How may I help you?

Poem: A Collection of Dirt From A Traveller's Boot

Last one for the day. :)

A rather known poet from New Mexico stopped by for a reading at the Ozark Mtn. Smokehouse up the street, and he came into the Bookshop to buy some stuff. I forgot his name, but this is for him.

***************
A Collection of Dirt From A Traveller's Boot

Underneath fluorescence
and surrounded by age
that is imagined as knowledgeable trees
talks a stranger, a troubadour
with news of the far for the day.
A local holds spellbound
watching practiced hands move
around the words in the air
shaping pictures of firelight and desert
and old ghost-town pubs with puke-water on cactus,
of pool tables and dusty sandpaper men
with the wisdom of too much red and alcohol.
These are stories of other tribes,
of displaced wanderers and of the differences
between the same people of seperate geographies.
Instances of timelessness
transmuted between dreamers of a certain station,
a subconscious reminded
that outside the comfortable treads of well-worn awe
other wonders still exist.